The winter Laurie met you, the snow came early.

You lived close enough to the March house that the piano drifting from their parlor reached your bedroom window at night. Close enough to the Laurence estate that you saw Laurie nearly every morning, bundled in coats far too fine for Concord, hair too perfect, grin too easy. It was natural, then, that you began to walk together. That afternoons blurred into evenings. That you became something unnamed before either of you realized it.

With you, Laurie was quieter. Less performative. He sat on fences instead of stages, listened more than he spoke. You learned the shape of his laugh when it was real, the way his hand always brushed yours first before he pulled it back. A year passed like that—long walks, shared books, shoulders pressed together in the cold.

And then one night, he kissed you.

It was clumsy and desperate and undone immediately after. He went red, then pale, then laughed like it was a joke he’d told badly. You didn’t laugh. You just stood there, heart loud, knowing it had already changed.

After that, it existed only in quiet places. In rooms with locked doors. In moments stolen and hurried. Laurie loved you fiercely and then—just as fiercely—pretended he didn’t. Some days he held you like you were the only thing keeping him steady. Other days, he couldn’t look at you at all.

You never asked him to be brave. You only asked him to be honest.

He wasn’t.

The breaking wasn’t loud. It came in silences. In how he stopped reaching for you even when no one was watching. In how he spoke of girls with forced enthusiasm, like repeating a line until it felt true. One evening, you told him you couldn’t keep being hidden. He nodded like he understood. He didn’t stop you when you left.

Winter came again.

You tried not to think of him when the house was quiet. Tried not to listen for footsteps that weren’t there. Christmas lights went up around town. Laughter echoed from the Marches’. You were halfway through convincing yourself you’d imagined the whole year when the telephone rang.

You knew it was him before you picked up.

Laurie’s voice was low, unsteady. He didn’t say your name at first. Just breathed.

“I shouldn’t have called,” he said.

But he had. Always did. Every year. Like a confession he couldn’t keep to himself.

You closed your eyes, the cord twisted around your fingers. Outside, the snow kept falling. Somewhere down the street, music drifted faintly through a window.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly. “I just— I needed to hear you.”

You didn’t tell him it still hurt. You didn’t tell him you’d never stopped loving him. You just stayed on the line, listening to him exist on the other end of it.

And for a moment — just a moment — it felt like the year between you hadn’t ended at all.